


Star Stuff and Grace

by MarisFerasi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale & Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Banter, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Crowley does what he wants, Crowley uses he/him, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Galleries, Genderfluid, Historical References, M/M, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Old Married Couple, Oysters, Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Switching, godfathers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 21:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20070751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: A peek through the ages at our favorite Good Bois as they orbit one another, each pining and thinking it's unrequited, until, after the Apoca-not, Zira finally cracks."Crowley," he says, barely at all, but it makes the other man freeze all the same. He's sitting on the counter now, only a foot away, maybe. Long legs dangle down toward the floor, kicking gently now and then. Covered yellow eyes snap over to him, searching. Crowley's fingers unfurl and he holds his hand out. Aziraphale takes it and stands, stepping closer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Crowley always seems to use he/his regardless of his presentation at the time, so I left male pronouns intentionally (or swapped them based on perspective for Ashtoreth)

He'd just wanted someone to _talk_ to, and that pretty blonde angel on the wall, wringing his hands anxiously, seemed as good a candidate as any. 

Crawly slipped up the stones, minding the rough-hewn ledge on his smooth belly, and forced his skin into something humanoid, like the angel. Like those two he just tempted for the first time. No sense in scaring the bloke off immediately, after all. He'd been staring at the angel for days, working up the nerve, and now they were alone. 

The angel still cringed slightly, and seemed to fire off a script that had been beaten into his brain at first, which was boring, but then...

"Didn't you have a flaming sword?" And by--well, _someone_\-- the angel cringed again and looked rather embarrassed. "You did. It was flaming like anything." 

Ah. _Given it away_. 

How...utterly amazing. 

Not so boring, after all. Definitely worth talking to. 

"Crawly," he offered, when prompted. He hated the name, but had quite forgotten his old one, even if he remembered everything else. 

They watched the humans fight off their first threat and Crawly lingered over their figures in the distance, how the male protected the female, and just as the thought flitted by, a white wing arced over his head, sheltering him from the Earth's first raindrops. 

Crawly blinked and inched closer to his new friend, pleased that he seemed to have found _somewhere_ he actually quite liked to be. 

___

The youngsters had taken to him, shockingly quick. Kids seemed to sense how little a threat he actually was. As it were, he was sitting with the town's various children in a pen with several small goats and pigs. They were loading up that ridiculously huge houseboat, and he had gotten bored of all the talk and wandered away from the grown men. One of the smaller girls was weaving plaits in his hair while another sat on his crossed ankles. 

"Why d'you have funny eyes?" The one on his ankles twisted around and nearly poked him right in said eye. Crawly flinched away carefully and snorted. 

"I'm not from here, little one. Other people live elsewhere, and they can have whatever eyes they have there," he answered, smiling widely but not enough that she would ask about his pointy teeth, next.

A glint of pale, nearly white among the ruddy reds and browns of everyone else's robes caught the corner of his vision and he perked up. "Let go, luv. Gotta go," he stood the smaller girl up and pulled his hair from the other's grasp, dashing away and across the road to where various people were speculating at the size of the ship. 

Aziraphale was standing very near the front, a worried look on his face. 

Crawly had known about the flood and the Ark. He had not expected the complete and utter genocide. 

Shocked, he pointed out the hypocrisy of such a brutal act, mostly for Aziraphale's benefit, and soon slouched away again in the rain. 

A week or so into the event, Aziraphale is flying serenely over the vast waters, contemplating Crawly's comments and anguish, and sees a small dot of black among all the blue. He drops down and lands on a horribly bound-together raft with several children clinging on. The oldest, probably barely ten and not very large, stands in front of the others, brandishing a stick at him. They are all clearly terrified. 

Aziraphale holds his hands up, placating, only to see a slice of black out of the corner of his eye, arcing gracefully along the top of the water. 

"Ah. Should have suspected it was you." The children part to let Crawly, in his huge snake form, slither halfway up onto the wood. He has several fish in his mouth, which the children lunge for as he drops them and shifts. "They aren't meant to survive, dear boy." Aziraphale leans down and mutters into the demon's ear.

"Not even my lot would murder _kids_. They're innocent in all this, isnt that what your precious scripts say?" Crowley spits, spreading his night-dark wings in front of the children like a wall. Aziraphale frowns at him. 

"I don't disagree with you, Crowley. But I've been told to destroy anyone not on the ark," the angel shifts uncomfortably. He may not exactly see the demon as a friend, per se, but he doesnt want to harm him, regardless. 

He also doesnt personally agree with killing children, no matter the importance of The Plan. Aziraphale huffs a great sigh and turns to look back toward the ark on the grey horizon. 

"Look. They won't make it another three weeks, at the _earliest_, on this...raft." the angel looks doubtfully at the eight-odd children peeking out between black feathers, and then back at Crawly. "Push the raft up to the ark, after nightfall. The lowest front window is the larder, and the storage rooms around it are only visited when they run out of supplies. One of them is already empty. Take them there, if you must save them. But I havent heard a word, you understand?" Aziraphale frowns mightily and does his utmost to ignore the softened glare denting Crawly's brow. 

"Shall I say thank you?" The demon asks, letting two of the youngest humans come around and settle in his lap. Aziraphale watches, with confused curiosity as they curl into him, still shying away from the angel. 

"Better not," he grunts, and flies away in a whoosh of feathers. 

___

At Golgotha, Crowley was visibly upset, not that the angel much noticed. He just cracked a snide joke and kept watching the murder unfold. That Jesus kid had indeed been bright, kind and clever. And now, look at him. Yet another sacrifice to a plan he'd never stood a chance of surviving. A plan that had been in motion since before Adam and Eve, before even himself or Aziraphale. 

_Crowley_\-- he corrected Aziraphale-- appreciated that the angel, so unwavering in his certainty, had the humanity to flinch when the nails were hammered in. He also didnt notice that Aziraphale had looked him up and down more than once since he'd arrived 

Crowley'd been too close to the kid, yet again. He'd taken the young man out among the wide kingdoms, shown him every continent and biodome, every plant and creature, even himself. He'd shifted and explained angels and demons, what he'd been before The Fall... they'd argued over how God could be cruel and unforgiving, but was still probably preferable to The Dark and Cold.

And Jesus had been rapt with attention, drinking it all in, but gently refused with a curious smile when Crowley shifted back to human and, taking care to make an Effort that would be more pleasing to the young man, offered one last temptation, one final kingdom to explore. The rejection was expected; he'd been told he would fail at this job, but it still stung. He'd actually liked the kid. 

Yeshua had told him no, that he belonged to someone else, _that way_, and Crowley still puzzled over which of the two them he'd meant. Could have easily been himself. He shifts anxiously next to Aziraphale and winces as the hammer falls again. 

But, yet again, he has to stand by and watch someone entirely innocent be killed for something none of them could control. 

It made acid pool on his tongue, the hate he felt in that moment for the Other Side. Crowley made himself stay until they pierced his lungs, and then he turned away, stomach roiling. Aziraphale led him to his house and they drank themselves stupid. 

He'd kept the lower genitalia both as a reminder and a blessing. It chafed less, and robes could get horribly hot. 

___

So seven years later, after a long siesta in Briton among the pagans and all their delightful revelry, he's back in good old Rome, feeling a full bloody tantrum thrumming under his skin as he crashes onto a stool and rubs his eyes. 

"Give me whatever you think is drinkable," he grouses to a barmaid, and plunks two cesterces in her hand when prompted. The stuff is nasty, and he can't wait to get back across the territory as soon as possible to his damp little corner of civilization. 

And then the angel shows up at his shoulder, interrupting a good brood. 

He's snappish and rude, just wanting to wallow in how bad his week has been. His job didn't work, he'd failed and would likely have to stay on longer, now. His sodding fashion was everywhere at once, after both spending too long among the celts and then deciding that femining aesthetic tended to suit his interests more, he now looked frankly ridiculous in the Capitol. 

But the angel-- Aziraphale-- looked the same as ever, just slightly altered style and the same big stupid smile. It made Crowley think of the wall again, when he'd fumbled over his words and chuckled when Crowley gave him a hint of comfort by way of blind acceptance through his mistakes. 

Tempting, indeed.

They went and got those oysters, after all, and they'd been decent. They'd talked for hours, mostly about the humans. Aziraphale mentioned that more than a few people had tried to marry him, or pair him off with wealthy women. 

"_You_?! No way." Crowley snorted into his cup. At Aziraphale's curious (slightly affronted) look, he clarified: "No one, not in the history of huma--no, the history of _anything_, has ever, _not once_, imagined _you_ were interested in _females_." 

"Oh," the angel scoffed, seemingly relieved at this answer. He chuckled absently and peered into his own cup. Crowley frowned. 

Well that's...odd. 

"I dont know. There was this fetching young thing a few years back, at the crucifixion of Christ. I rather admired them, I think." A white eyebrow quirked carefully, barely at all, really, and Crowley froze. "Long, wild red hair and a ridiculous dark robe, even for an execution. Quite... exotic-looking." Aziraphale was already picking up another grape from their little dessert tray and rinsing it down with the dregs of his wine. 

_Interesting_. 

"Only then?" Crowley asked quietly. It took a moment for an answer, as Aziraphale went wooly between the eyes as if puzzling out Crowley's meaning, and then his face softened. 

"Oh. No, I believe I just _took notice_, then. If you will." They went quiet for a bit after that, Crowley's skin thrumming with a new sort of anxiety. He gives Crowley's frankly horrible hairstyle a doubtful look, stifling a sudden giggle. "I do miss your hair, though. Made me think of the old days, up there. When we were all a bit more... primordial." 

Afterward, Crowley walked Aziraphale to his dormus and bade him goodnight, receiving a too-long kiss that almost turns _romantic_, wide yellow eyes lingering for a cautious moment too long as the angel disappeared inside and shut the door. 

He left in the night, fleeing back across the territory for his safe, damp little island of nature-worshippers. They made far more sense.

___

A few short decades later, he's back in the sand and heat for a smallish job. Spreading another religion, they say. This one's going to a group of warmongers, though. He feels a terrible tug in his gut, a sprout of strong negativity a few dozen miles off, and he flits there, certain he'll find a gash of stark white amidst all the brown. Theres only one other supernatural being living on earth that could get his attention that quick. 

And sure enough, that blasted angel is here, tied up behind a camel and trudging through the desert, complaining loudly through the sweat and strain. He looks roughed-up and angry but otherwise alright. Crowley trots his horse alongside them. 

They're human traffickers-- slavers, likely, off to sell this pale, (rather effeminate) exotic bit of flesh to the nearest rich prince. Crowley shakes his head with a sigh and trots his horse across their path before they can reach the well along the outer ring of tents. 

"Hullo, there." They're outside a smallish nomadic village of Hebrews, where the men clearly plan to stop for the night and demand some hospitality by way of (at the very least) food and drink. "Nice catch, gents" he winks at Aziraphale, who is simultaneously huffy and pleased to see him there. He squirms in the ropes. His wrists are ringed with red. 

"Could you _do something_, please, Crawly?" Aziraphale damn near stamps his foot, drawing a quick, sharp smile from his friend. 

"_Crow-_ley. How much?" Crowley jerks his chin toward the angel and dismounts his horse. 

"For this? He is very difficult. Two horses." 

Crowley's eyes widen in mock offense. _Expensive_. 

He tuts, walking over to inspect his friend with a critical eye. Not bleeding anywhere, thank _someone_, but he is filthy. Aziraphale gives Crowley his best sneer which turns vaguely into a grateful smile the longer they stand there. The demon runs his thumbs over the hurt spots and they vanish with barely a thought, earning him a thankful grin (right before it turns into a scowl again). He leaves the ropes attached, though. "Why dont you _do something_, then?" He asks, mocking just a little. Aziraphale's face turns sour and then evens out to a pitiful huff. 

"I keep getting in trouble for _frivolity_. They dont understand _living_ down here, how you're expected to keep up _appearances_. I was blessing a group of herders a bit west of here and _they_," he snarls at the men, "grabbed me as I was leaving. Stupid of me to travel alone in this _nasty_ country, _I know_." He grouses. Crowley has been smiling thinly the whole while, trying not to laugh. He turns away, still fighting a chuckle, and addresses the traders. 

The angel's eyes wander, like a cool stream of water, over Crowley's face and hair as he turns profile and negotiates with the slavers. It--his wild hair-- is longer again now, and barely contained by a loose shawl that hides his neck and face from the burning sun. He's volleying offers back and forth with the slavers, negotiating Aziraphale's price down tremendously. They seem to be afraid of keeping him, but unwilling to part with less than one horse. Aziraphale's not quite listening, however, watching his friend-who-isn't attempt to save him in a rather _human_ way. 

It's _endearing_. 

"One horse and _two_ goats, then. Bloody thieves." Crowley sighs as if irritated. They agree after several banters back and forth. "You can stay the night if you shut up, already," he waves at the village calmly, as if he's the patriarch instead of another intruder. 

As soon as Crowley gets the rope that ties _himself_ now to Aziraphale, the men dismount their camels and go to the smallish paddock to retrieve their "pay" from Crowley's "daughter." (They won't be getting so much as a grain of barley, but then again they don't deserve that either.) 

"_You_ need an _entire_ _bath house_." Crowley pulls playfully at the rope, teasing as he comes closer, forcing the angel to take a half-step when tugged. Aziraphale harrumphs and glares at him pointedly. 

"You're enjoying this too much. Let me out of this, please. And...well, should I say thank you? No, better not." He nods at Crowley's sneer. "How did you know where I was? You came quite out of nowhere." He sighs in relief when Crowley loosens the knots and the rope falls away. 

"I always know where you are, angel." It spills out of Crowley's mouth before he can bite his tongue. Crowley winks at Aziraphale to hide his immediate panic and, in true demonic fashion, they disappear with a whoosh of wings a hundred miles east. The poor horse collapses in a nervous heap just beside them, but a hand over his neck stops the panic and dry heaving. He's fine in an instant. 

If Crowley drops his friend at a fine Turkish bath and does his small chore and returns quickly, stripping and joining his dearest mate in the naturally heated pools, no one is watching closely enough that they'll get tattled on. 

(Crowley often likes to think that he helped create the first inclination for kissing, considering he had been alarmingly close to India at the time the act was first recorded in writing, but as long as he's the first demon to kiss an angel (wet and nude, no less), well. He supposes can live with them taking the claim.)

They go for supper late that night, and it's not unseemly for the pale, opulent-looking hedonist Aziraphale, lounging on a chaise with his platter of food, to offer his lap for Crowley, who coils his limbs up in the close-afforded space and allows himself to be fed bite by bite and mouthfuls of wine for _hours_. 

___

Crowley's carved himself a nice niche here, with a slightly manic but doting man who lets him come and go as easily as he pleases. Leonardo loves him to _pieces_, paints and draws his form over and over in varied states of nudity and wakefulness. In return, Crowley shares his bed and gives him ideas for inventions, and (most importantly) keeps the snoopier hyper-religious cunts off his doorstep. 

Crowley leaves and works occasionally, doing his usual bare minimum of causing mild distress and panic across a small population, and returns to the inventor's living space with trinkets and oil paints for his friend and sleeps for weeks after a rough assignment. Leo loves drawing him when he's stretched in a patch of sun on the man's bed, hair loose and serpentine spine curved delicately. He'd done a marvelous spread on a St Andrew's cross as well, tying the demon this way and that only to sit back and draw him for a while, or to push juicy berries into his mouth or tease him to the point of splintering the wood when Crowley forgets himself and flexes too hard, hips chasing a teasing hand or mouth. 

Leo's been a marvel for decades, now, and he started calling Crowley his "little devil" when the latter couldnt explain his ageless looks. And when Leonardo DaVinci passes his last breath, Crowley's lip wobbles as he packs away a few of his more favorite pieces, ones dedicated to himself, mostly. The rest he sends to Aziraphale to have properly preserved or sent to schools and libraries. 

Crowley lets himself love. He _does_. He's probably the only demon who _can_. He's the only one who's got imagination enough to do so.

He just doesnt quite love anyone as much as he does that bastard of an angel. 

___

It's long since the time when men could kiss and touch comfortably in public. That wall had been down between them since Crowley's century-long sleep, during which the Church started making up all sorts of rules. He's certain a demon must have been at the head of it; who else could enjoy making billions of otherwise fairly innocuous humans so uncomfortable and unhappy in their everyday lives. Still, his heart does a funny jolt and his mouth feels infinitely dry when he gets Aziraphale's note. He makes sure he looks pristine and darts out into the murk of London. 

Much to anyone's surprise, Crowley _did not_ miss the soft smile the angel gave him as he circled Aziraphale in the Globe. It was frightfully slow day, another of the more boring political plays of Shakespeare's, but he'd fed and watered that white and gold-flecked pigeon before sending it off with a reply, and showed up all the same. 

The warmth of that smile was... intoxicating. He'd do an awful lot of truly unspeakable things for that sensation to continue. 

They tossed the coin, he cheated a _tiny bit_ and got out of his duties. He'd take the next round, already feeling slightly bad at the crumpled frown on Aziraphale's face. The cold and the damp was--pardon the phrase-- _absolute hell_ on his body, the old serpent sighed. 

The play would be a roaring success, one for the ages, really. He never could deny the angel anything. 

It wasn't so bad, he admitted to himself, snapping his fingers as he walked out and carefully side-stepped a squishy area of mud in the street. 

He'd grown soft, somehow, over the centuries, but couldnt quite find the stuff in himself to rail against it. 

___

This _idiot_. 

This absolute, bell-end, fucking Go-_urgh!_\- _Someone_-damned _fool_ was going to get himself killed for certain this time. 

Crowley sat in the darkened corner of the Bastille holding cell, wincing as the blade of the guillotine fell on the neck of yet another soul and the crowd jeered. He positioned himself very carefully in the shadow and waited. 

Finally, the guard turned and he made a complicated gesture, freezing time. It was a fairly new trick, but one he quite enjoyed. It was good in a tight spot, or for a bit of privacy. Sometimes both. 

It took a second for Aziraphale to notice the cessation of jabbering, so Crowley cut in, poised for the dramatic reveal as his angel spun around and grinned outright. 

And suddenly, it was like a brick in his belly. 

He's been being _used_. Not in a bad way, not necessarily, but the angel was _absolutely_ manipulating him. 

Why? He could just as easily (depending on the effort put into said manipulation--in this case, a fair amount) do _any of this_ himself. 

Just to see...him? Crowley shook the thought away and hissed at Aziraphale. "_Dont say that_. If they find out I rescued an angel, I'd be in a load of trouble, and _my lot_ do not send rude notes!" But all the same, he was happy to be there and happy to "save" his friend-who-wasn't. Another deed, another day. 

He made Aziraphale miracle his own clothing change. Those horrendous shoes _had_ to go. And if they were on the feet of the man who'd tried to kill his dearest friend, so be it. 

It was time for lunch. 

___

They'd finally made it to the Ritz sometime around 1992. Crowley's fashion had changed yet again; his hair was longish now, in a fit of rebellion he felt he _deserved_ among the glam rock bands and the fading-out of Queen. But for such a high-clout occasion he'd tied it up in a neat bun and put on a slim- tailored suit. Aziraphale looked the same as ever, but that had become a welcome constant as the years wore on.

(Crowley'd also gotten his nipples pierced after seeing them on Tommy Lee on the telly had taken his breath away. He keeps a tiny gold bar studded at the end with little balls in each. He thinks they look delicious in a mirror, or _would_ under _someone's_ tongue. 

Not that _someone_ would _see them_. Let alone taste.)

As he parked the Bentley, Crowley pulled off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes furiously, listening to the angel's polite babble about what all had happened since they'd last met in the seventies.

Aziraphale was skirting the Thermos issue, carefully. 

They got out and Crowley narrowly avoided the overeager valet, always refusing to let anyone else park his beloved car. Aziraphale noticed, as he held the door, that he'd tucked his glasses into his breast pocket. He caught Crowley's elbow as the other man made to enter.

"Dear boy" he paused, frowning slightly, his hand tightening. Crowley hadn't gone out his own front door without his glasses on since they'd become easy enough to come by in public, at _least_ the Renaissance. Crowley hesitated and glanced back at his angel, raising a brow in question. "Oh," Aziraphale gasped. "Uhm. Wow."

Bright, burnished-brass irises with circular pupils blinked back at him, slightly shocked at the physical contact, and then crinkled into a frown, and Crowley opened his mouth. "Not good? I thought...well, dark glasses at the Ritz. Embarassing?" he shuffled his feet. 

"If. If you feel you _must_, then do whichever is more comfortable. It's just..not very _you_, my dear, hiding anything. Don't do it for me, Crowley. You...be _comfortable_. That's what I want." 

Crowley blinked and shuffled awkwardly. "I'd prefer looking at you unhindered," he groused, shouldering past the angel to heave open the secondary door. 

Aziraphale pressed his lips together against a smirk and followed his dear friend, brushing past him (unnecessarily and quite intentionally) at the inner door. 

Dinner was marvelous. Crowley ate his nearly whole but enjoyed the taste all the same, and sat quietly while Aziraphale slowly savored each methodical bite, even sampling the two bites Crowley left behind of his own food (he always did this, no matter where they went, because the only thing better than watching Aziraphale enjoy _anything_, was watching him enjoy something of _Crowley's_). They chat quietly, but both seem to be deep in thought below the surface conversation.

"Crowley." Aziraphale sets his champagne flute down after dessert and arranges his face carefully. The demon tosses back the last mouthful of his own and peers over, at ease but cautious. 

Always careful. 

_Anxious_. 

Aziraphale clears his throat several times, working over what he wants to say, squirming in his seat, but then... one side of Crowley's face lifts a minuscule fraction and his hand lands on the blank space of the table between them, palm side up. He waits, nearly frozen, hardly breathing. 

Aziraphale's hand creeps over and cups Crowley's, resting there, more than anything, and the demon lets out a sigh he wasnt aware he'd been holding in. 

"I... don't you _know_, dear boy?" The angel flicks his eyes around, cautious in a way Crowley is absolutely not. He's spooled out over his seat and half the table, as always. Staring at their hands, now. 

"Not exactly." He answers, truthfully. They're both idiots, to be sure, but Hell's teeth he wants to be told, with actual bloody _words_, that Aziraphale feels similarly. He's been head-over-heels for ages. Eons, really. 

"Take me home, please," Aziraphale sighs, at long last. They go, the bill paid with a wave of the hand. 

Crowley lets his hair down in the car, and the angel stares at it curling soft over the sharp edges of his black-covered shoulders, and now he's floundering. This feels immense, somehow, this conversation they need to have. It's probably a millenia or two out of time.

At least.

Aziraphale recalls their dinner in Rome and how he wishes he'd kissed Crowley longer, then. Invited him inside, even. Better then, than the state of things even twenty years ago, let alone during the Regency society, chalked up with horrifically strict templates for masculinity and no wiggle room for anyone out of place. 

Aziraphale shakes his head to clear it and tries again:

"Is your...uh," he raises his eyebrows at the radio. "Spying?" 

Crowley snorts humorlessly and turns it off. "No. What?" 

"Well, dear. I. I rather feel like we've let something fester for too long, now. I can feel it from you, you know. The waves of it. Love. And I've been too frightened to tell you they're reciprocated. The feelings, that is. They...well, they are." Aziraphale watches Crowleys knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. 

"Afraid of heaven." Crowley grits out, more a statement than question as he's sliding into his parking space at the bookshop. There's never been one there before, but there is always one free when the Bentley drives up. 

"Well. Yes." Aziraphale half-twists toward his friend, speech stilted but earnest. His hands keep fluttering from his own lap (fingers clenched around one another to keep them still) and reaching to place a palm on Crowley's thigh. "Not for me. What they would do to you, first." He pauses, biting his lips. 

"I've always been rather terrified that they'd _peek_ at just the wrong time and. That would be it. A glass of water at our dinner table, blessed in the kitchen by an angelic hand. Spontaneous holy rain, specific to wherever you are, and you'd-- well." He can hardly finish the thought, voice shaking as it is. The angel swallows, peering sideways to watch Crowley's chest rise and fall with quick, controlled breaths. 

He's panicking, just silently. 

"Darling, I don't--"

"No one is watching, angel." Crowley interrupts, the windows going black. Aziraphale blinks in the sudden din and Crowley takes his glasses off, waving a hand at the car radio. Its wires explode outward, rendering it unusable as a listening device for Hell. "Talk."

"Wha--why me? You talk! I've _been_ the one talking, all night!" Aziraphale splutters, indignant. 

"Because you just said _you know_ how I feel. And all_ I know_ is that you are aware of it and _reciprocate_, whatever the 'eaven that's supposed to mean." He tucks a hank of hair behind his ear, frowning, and rubs his eyes with a thumb and knuckle. "I love you, yeah. Have for ages. Probably forever, I dunno. Thwre's no one else. None of them...pfft," he splutters off for a second, regrouping. "Long enough that I can't help it, even if I tried. It just...is. There, I mean. Won't go away. But I also know that you haven't and _won't_ choose me. Not if you have _them_ to cleave to." He spirals a forefinger upward. "So what's the point? Of this little talk, eh, angel? I _go to fast_. You said it, once, and you aren't wrong. But I'd rather have you like this, once in a great while, than not at all." 

Aziraphale's mouth works for a moment, stunned and wholly unable to find a solid argument. Crowley is right. "I _do_ love you, you old serpent. _Of course_ I do! But I'm _scared to death_ to act on it. Not for my sake, you understand. I just said I was frightened and why. They're _dangerous!_ You've spent our whole time on Earth telling me precisely _why_. And now, now that I at least somewhat believe you and _want_ to act on it, I find myself petrified! Wholly unable to." Aziraphale fidgets in his seat and takes Crowley's hand again. "The church, when you came in...with the bomb. Forty-one. I was annoyed, considering our previous conversation, but... I was more afraid that you, coming onto consecrated ground... well, that you'd draw the wrong sort of attention and that would be it. What if that fount had tipped over and splashed you in the bombing?!" 

"This is tedious." Crowley growled, pulling his hand away. "Go inside, angel. I've hit my limit for mortification for this fucking decade." 

Aziraphale hesitated, and then leaned over the bench seat. He took Crowley's hand off the steering wheel again and stared at their fingers for a moment. Aside from his jaw firming, Crowley didn't react and let his dearest friend do as he pleased, rubbing one too-soft thumb across knuckles that felt only a tiny bit like smooth, sleek scales instead of proper human skin. When he finally turned his head, the angel leaned in. 

"Dont make me wait a whole decade," Aziraphale breathed, barely audible, and kissed the corner of Crowley's mouth. He opened the car door and left easily, knowing full well that Crowley would wait until he was locked in his shop before pulling away. 

Crowley stares at the empty seat beside him for several beats, the thumb of his opposite hand ghosting over the place where Aziraphale's lips kissed his cheek. He takes a steadying breath, and drives home. 

___

Crowley jolts awake from a nap roughly fifteen years later (not that he'd been sleeping that long-- just that 9/11 and its fallout had driven him to hide under the covers from the sheer disappointment he felt in humanity) to his phone ringing off the hook. He fumbles to the office and answers it, sinking wearily into his throne. 

"Crowley. We have something for you from the Dark Lord. You will meet us in the cemetery in Tadfield tonight." Hastur's voice was always a treat, especially to wake up to. 

"Right, yeah. Package. Cemetery. When?" Crowley stretches and scratches his bum, barely listening. "T'night. Got it. See ya." He hangs up and rolls his eyes, irritated and instantly anxious. 

The plants tremble and straighten as he passes, shoving their best leaves out as the demon goes into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a slice of angel cake. Both had been there because he expected them to be, despite a decade-long nap. Same as his plants, still living despite not being watered.

Crowley dresses and checks his email and ansaphone, checking off a list of news reports to write up and claim for Below, to look like he's done something with himself other than mope his way unconscious yet again. 

He waters the plants. He musters up the energy to growl at a few of them.

He pointedly avoids calling the angel. 

Crowley decides to have a go about town, where he changes his hair, manifests new clothes in the highest styles that appeal to him, and transforms his outdated mobile phone to the latest model. He also spies a new watch in a window and salivates at it before actually bothering to go in and buy the thing. 

Certain pieces, he will shell out for. 

If he skirts Soho with _absolute_ care, no one is around to call him on it. 

He gets into a bit of mischief, taking down the mobile towers over lunch. Better than gluing coins to the sidewalk, that one. It'll be a problem for millions of folks, for _hours_. Some of his best work since convincing international TSA boards to only allow 3 fl oz bottles of soap on flights. 

But when he gets that baby in the Bentley, his nerves shred to pieces in an absolute blink, and the only person he dares to call is his only friend in the world. 

___

Nanny Ashtoreth is sitting at the breakfast table on the stone patio of the estate, sipping a mug of coffee (stained on one edge with dark red lipstick) gracefully while seemingly reading a magazine in peace. Her tight but tastefully cut charcoal blouse is topped off by the garnet teardrop of a jewel sitting at the hollow of her throat, slim hips encased in a smooth burgundy pencil skirt that accentuates her shapely calves ensconced in black stockings, tapering to wrist-thin ankles and a pair of sensible but attractive kitten heels. Her victory curls are topped with a broad sun hat that has been carefully pinned into place. 

Francis is teaching the boy about birds across the lawn, showing him a new nest full of tiny eggs in a rosebush, which he found while _actually_ pruning. With his _hands_. 

(It had been rather awful, he insists. Completely ruined his manicure.)

They are both watching one another peripherally, orbiting without direct interaction where possible. If Crowleys eyes, hidden behind dark lenses, are watching Aziraphale with an emotion his face cannot show, no one is there to notice. 

Until Thaddeus plunks his laptop and a mug of coffee on the table, screeching out a chair, and sits with a heavy sigh. 

"Nice day for it," he comments offhandedly. Americans cannot stand silence, Crowley has noticed. He carefully smiles back, nodding once. 

"Absolutely," Nanny answers back in her soft brogue. 

"That new gardener likes you," Dowling says, quirking a conspiratorial smile and leaning a few inches closer. "He watches you all the time, when you bother to come outside." 

Nanny balks, unable to control the reaction fully, and Crowley's eyes slide over toward Francis and Warlock, suddenly anxious that their scheme has been ruined by neither of them being terribly subtle. Thaddeus snickers and goes back to his laptop, typing and clicking around for a few moments. 

"Sorry if I ruined something unrequited, there. But you both seem sort of lonely. Not that I necessarily approve of... "office romances," if you will, but. When in Rome, heh-heh," he chuckles again, finally going quiet when Crowley--uh, _Ashtoreth_\-- doesnt respond. He goes into an odd jaunt about how he met Harriet, la-de-da, Crowley isnt listening to a man who is used to filling silence with jargon and political tripe. He nods at the right places and hums at others and largely ignores his employer for the sake of glaring at Aziraphale so hard he finally flinches with the zing of one pointed demonic thought and looks over, waving kindly. 

Crowley grinds his teeth and goes back to his magazine.

A half hour or so later, Warlock drags Francis over to the patio and starts explaining something to Nanny in his excited, too-fast, four-year-old speech. She nods along with a doting smile anyway, the only one able to understand him at his worst. 

"For you, mum," Francis says brightly, handing Crowley a carefully arranged bundle of a single blue rose, some ranunculus, and anemone in a plump fist. 

He is 100% certain that none of those are even in the damnable garden. Maybe roses, but not _blue_. 

Crowley's jaw hardens minutely as he glares out of the tops of his glasses at Aziraphale, almost scowling as he takes the flowers in crushing silence and immediately leaves with Warlock. 

Thaddeus shakes his head at Francis with a knowing smile and shrugs. "She'll come around." 

Aziraphale flusters slightly and leaves, going back to the garden to distract himself in seclusion.

That weekend, on their off day, they met separately at the lions in Trafalgar Square, walking up to the gallery in companionable enough silence. Crowley was vibrating with nerves and muted fury, Aziraphale couldnt help but notice. He cleared his throat and half-turned toward his friend. 

"My dear--"

"Fucking _blue rossses_?" Crowley hissed, seething through sharp teeth. "Why didnt you tie on a goddamned _sonnet_ to soil my knickers, too. Unrequited love, pining, _expectation_. You... _absolute cock_." He rages, twisting his arms up across his chest, defensive and retreating into himself now, after the first strike. 

Aziraphale hesitated, absorbing the venom. "Well. It's _true _my dear." They continue silently for a moment, but the angel is pottering about in one particular room.

"You dont have to make it _hurt_ so much. _You're_ the one who's scared of retribution, not me." Crowley mutters blackly, backtracking his rage. "I've had this curled up inside for _millennia_, you dont get to throw it around in my face when _I've never been allowed to_ just because you want to make sure I know. I do, _trust_ me. But I..._hate this--_" 

He comes suddenly to a stop when he realizes Aziraphale has paused in front of a huge gilded nude of-- well, _Crowley_. It's not entirely recognizable as the live Crowley stood before it, but they both know that he's always had a soft spot for artists, and Eakins (for an American) had proven to be a visceral delight to tempt and twist. The man had loved painting Crowley in all states of undress (and cross-dress) nearly as much as Leonardo had. The _Study of a Male Nude_ had managed to make it into the London Collection, this rota.

Aziraphale is staring, parched, at the slope of bare neck and shoulder there before him, utterly gorgeous. Crowley's comment has made his chest ache, but he doesnt know how to make it stop, for either of them. They're exposed, now, to one another.

_At last_, perhaps. 

"Maybe one day we'll. Well. _Earn a day off_." He comments breathily, eyes fixed on the painting.

He glances over and sees that Crowley is very close (as always) on his left, his little snake brand on display, and he simply can't hold it in any longer. Aziraphale tips up a scant inch or two and kisses the little devil-mark, making Crowley lock up entirely and turn an attractive shade of red. The feeling of his angel's lips on his daemon avatar zings warmth through every nerve ending. Aziraphale straightens and faces the painting again. "He got your good side," the angel mutters, letting his face stay soft and wanting just as Crowley's sharp gaze snaps over to him. He misses the narrow side-eye Aziraphale slides across the space between them, fighting a smirk. _Angels dont smirk!_

"Its of my _back_," Crowley seethes, indignant, flapping a hand first at the wall, then at the angel toying with him. "You dont-- don't get to be silly, trying to--to _assuage_ me after being such a prick." He stomps away, but Aziraphale is certain he won't venture far.

They move along, exchanging notes on Warlock through tight lips, and eventually depart separately to lick their wounds in seclusion before returning to the estate. 

(The blue rose is still alive, by the way. When they left the Dowling estate for good, Crowley sprouted the thing, transplanted it into a pot and it is now a healthy, flowering bush in his flat, among the houseplants. It's the only one he can't quite threaten into beautification, and he always feeds it the best food. Pining, and all that). 

___

Aziraphale holds Crowley's hand, their fingers tangled and palms pressed tightly together, the whole way back to Mayfair on the bus, after everything ends. Or, well, didnt, did it?

Rather, the demon is pretty sure he does. He dozes in and out a few times. Aziraphale had tutted at him once and pulled him off the window, where he'd slouched against the glass. His friend's shoulder was a much better option, anyway. 

"You were _so strong_ today, darling." Aziraphale whispers, petting his hand. "You kept the Bentley going out of sheer will to get to us. You froze time and put us in another dimension, even froze Satan himself, for us to talk to Adam. Rest. We've a long way home." He winces when he says home and fully means Crowley's flat (which he's not even sure Crowley calls home. He's always said "his place") when they both clearly prefer the bookshop.

Home is where they both are. 

"You were the friend who died, by the way. You complete oaf," Crowley mutters, eyes already drooping again as he resettles the edge of his cheekbone over the soft slope of Aziraphale's shoulder. The fabric is worn and warm and he smells like faint sweat and _himself_, and that is more than enough. 

"What? Oh, when I found you at that tavern, drowning your feelings?" 

"Yeah."

The angel hums, taking that in. Of course he was, dramatic little thing. By the time he speaks again, Crowley is almost asleep. "And why would you do that, instead of heading to avert the apocalypse?" 

"Cos. What's the point of livin' without you, angel? Might as well...let it end. Maybe we'd... End up wherever we go, after. Together." Crowley is slurring, and he stutters on a snore that turns soft and even as the dazed driver pulls them slowly back toward London's orbit. 

He shakes Crowley gently awake, squeezing his lax fingers when they stop outside Crowley's building some hours later. The demon sucks in a startled breath and blinks owlishly behind his lenses. 

"Right. C'mon, angel," he sighs, striding off the bus. Aziraphale follows, releasing the driver from Crowley's glamour as he goes. 

"Thank you for the ride," he says, smiling brightly. The poor driver is extremely confused, but waves back and drives slowly away. 

Crowley's standing in his patio's open doorway when Aziraphale comes across the lawn. He's yawning hugely, sharp teeth on display and split tongue curled. Aziraphale gives him a warm, soft smile and allows himself be led through to the kitchen for a drink, dropping jackets and waist coats and shoes along the way. 

Crowley yawns again and scratches idly at his lower back, rucking up his shirt, stretching this way and that as he fetches two tumblers and miracles up a dusty old bottle of Irish whiskey. 

"Ice?" He grunts, fetching some for himself. While he's in the fridge, he pulls out a curiously prepped charcuterie covered in fruits and cheeses. Curls of smoked salmon appear by the time he sets the board on the counter top. 

_Must be feeling nibbly_, Aziraphale thinks. "Please," he says, accepting the tumbler when it's slid across to him. Crowley lets their fingertips collide and doesnt pull away too quickly. 

After several minutes of watching his friend rub his eyes and munch quietly through the salmon and the raspberries and some of the soft cheeses, Aziraphale sighs and sets his glass down. 

"_Crowley_," he says, barely at all, but it makes the other man freeze all the same. He's sitting on the counter now, only a foot away, maybe. Long legs dangle down toward the floor, kicking his bare feet gently now and then. Covered eyes snap over to him, searching. Crowley's fingers unfurl and he holds his hand out. Aziraphale takes it and stands, stepping closer. 

Blue eyes meet black glass again, and suddenly Aziraphale is determined and belligerent. He steps in-between Crowley's knees, coming closer than they've been in ages, too quick to be as casual as he wants to seem. Aside from his breath coming quicker, Crowley looks remarkably at-ease, pleased even. Slightly ruffled, maybe. He swallows the crushed raspberry on his tongue and waits, ever patient. 

"May I?" He asks, hand poised in front of Crowley's face, fingers curled toward his glasses. After a second of hesitation, Crowley lowers his face so the edge of glass butts up against the tips of those plump fingers like a horse dipping down to be petted. Aziraphale removes his glasses carefully and folds them, setting the bundle on the counter behind Crowley's hip. 

Which, coincidentally, is where his hands gravitate next. 

"I know that it's been a... trying day, and we can fret about all the little shitty nuances in the morning, but. My dear. I think we've finally earned a night to _ourselves_, yes?" Aziraphale asks, his hands sliding carefully up the outsides of Crowley's thighs until thumbs hook over his sharp hips.

In a beat, Crowley simultaneously crumples and surges forward, mouth meeting Aziraphale's and licking into him instantly. He waves a hand over their shoulders and the TV in the next room falls off the wall, crashing loudly. It's his only connected electronic; they'll be safe as houses. He leaves his mobile on the countertop. The hand returns to tighten in white tufts (which are far too soft!) at the back of his angel's head. 

Crowley moans into the kiss, turning instantly into a soft, pliable mess that Aziraphale scoops closer to the edge of the counter, clutching to him. He thinks for a split second at how odd Crowley's split tongue is, but the thought is vastly overtaken by how good it feels, this, after so long waiting. Crowley must agree, as he traces up behind the angel's teeth, capturing his upper lip between sharp incisors, careful, _tender_. 

Aziraphale allows himself to be taken over by sensation, wanting more and more, nothing being quite enough. He suddenly wants to feel that skin, that not-quite right but so, so perfect smooth surface all along his own body. He tears slightly at Crowley's denim-clad arse, pushing up his shirt and vest to run his fingers over an over-warm lower back. Crowley arches into it, a low sound escaping him as their mouths slip apart. 

"Your bed, darling?" He says into the warm space between them. Crowley nods and jerks his chin to the right, his legs winding tightly around Aziraphale's waist as the angel walks them into the next room.

"For the sake of expediency, angel... what do you have going down there? A prick?" Crowley asks, breathy, when Aziraphale drops him on the bed with a bounce and moves to follow him across the cool, black expanse. Crowley's fingers are already plucking the angel's buttons, though, pushing his shirt and trousers off. 

"I, uh. Oh. Yes." Aziraphale stammers, following suit and pulling now at Crowley's tight black jeans and tee shirt. By the time they remember they can just snap these things away, each is sitting on the bed, breathing at the other, stark naked and wanting. "Why?" Remembers Aziraphale, fiddling with a vaguely sweat-damp black trouser sock. "What does it matter?" 

"Oh, not much. At the moment I've got, well. The other. Easier in skinny jeans, y'know? Don' have to tuck it anywhere. Doesnt chafe as bad. I just sort of trade out as needed.... And, in this instance, doesnt require much prep, since we're both clearly exhausted." Crowley shrugs, too casual for how he actually feels (anxious as _fuck_). "Could get off and start again in the morning, after a bit of sleep? I can switch it if you like. Either one, doesn't bother me a bit." 

"I've... well, I've never tried it, I must admit," Aziraphale flushes the prettiest shade of pink and flicks his eyes down. "Are--are your _nipples_ pierced?" He asks, in awe, leaning forward to inspect the little flashes of gold. 

"Oh, uh. Yes. Did that a while back, y'know. When it was hip. Decided I liked them," Crowley tucks his chin and looks down, too. "You've never made the Effort for a quim, or you've never fucked one?" He clarified, wheedling for information. He lays back and allows Aziraphale to paw over him with soft, exploratory fingers. 

Aziraphale straightens a bit and his eyes flick further down, licking his lips. "Neither. I didnt bother with... _making the Effort _as you say, until probably Rome, the baths made it difficult to avoid having _nothing_ down there. But it was largely ornamental until I met Isherwood in Berlin. Just sort of left it, after he died." Crowley blinks at him, slow, a rare sight. 

"You didnt have sex before World War One, and havent since?" He deadpans. Aziraphale tuts and squirms a bit. 

"I didnt say that. I said it was _largely_ ornamental and that I'd never used a... female part. But it doesn't matter to me, dear boy. Use what you're comfortable with, and if we decide to switch later, you can. I assume that means you want me on, uh--top, then?" 

Crowley hums in assent and falls back to the mattress. Aziraphale runs his hands up Crowley's thighs, moving slowly toward that sweet-damp juncture. Crowley responds with a breathy sigh, reaching and pulling his angel with him by his neck until they're kissing again, deeper, this time. Crowley's long, slender legs wind around Aziraphale's waist until their chests are smashed together. 

"Hmm. I want-- I would like to taste you, my dear. All over. May I?" Aziraphale nips at Crowley's jaw, hands already smoothing downward to cup his hips and squeeze over his arse as he grinds them together. Crowley nods shakily, gasping as his dearest friend slides down in turns of sharp bites and soothing licks over every square inch. 

He'd been right about the nipple rings. He was gloriously oversensitive, there, thighs jumping with a zing to his groin every time Aziraphale licked over them or dragged his teeth carefully. The angel dips his tongue between the divots of each rib, which seems maybe too many for a human, and Crowley's breath comes shaky and uneven as his fingers tighten in white curls, urging Aziraphale on.

There is a faint, soft tuft of dark auburn hair between bellybutton and groin that Aziraphale buries his nose in, nuzzling with a deep whiff of the intoxicating earthy-smoke scent of his partner. He licks at the seam of pubis and thigh curiously, roving a few inches lower until Crowley's hips jolt upward with a sharp inhale. 

"Oh! Yes, angel. _There_!" His fingers wind tighter in Aziraphale's hair, hips flexing as he drops his legs wider. Aziraphale drags his tongue through smooth, slick-wet skin, tasting a stronger version of the scent of _his Crowley_ and just a bit of sweet in the moisture coating Crowley's slit. When he reaches a firmer bump at the peak, Crowley jerks again with a shout, stomach clenching rhythmically as he whines. 

_Ah, that's the spot,_ the angel thinks, smiling wide against Crowley's juncture as he laves his tongue out again. "Thoroughly enjoying your meal?" Crowley huffs out between breaths as his stomach flexes sharply. Aziraphale moans against him, sending a whole other set of sensations through the demon. "Fu--fingers, angel. Two, inside, c'mon," Crowley unclenches one hand and reaches down, pushing Aziraphale's arm below him as the angel cottons on. 

Aziraphale wets the two middle fingers of his right hand and slides them down the crevice of Crowley's vulva, delighting in the abortive motions the exploring induces. Crowley is practically vibrating off the mattress at this point, and they're still in the middle of foreplay. Eventually, he feels a gently sloped opening and slides inside, marveling at the tight, wet heat that feels entirely different from a rectum. It's textured, for one, and has an ending, but the spongy spot behind his knuckles gives Crowley a full-body hiccup when pressed. 

The angel is smirking now, target acquired and all. His mouth returns to the task of worrying Crowley's swollen clit with a flat tongue and then sucking at it unpredictably, while working his fingers to curl against that spot until Crowley is completely clenched up from curled toes to his doubled-over torso and he screams, shaking, into the concrete void of the flat. Aziraphale licks at him with softer and softer touches until Crowley flops back down again, boneless and exhausted. 

Aziraphale moves to the side, mouthing over Crowley's splayed thighs while the demon regroups. He's hooked by the armpits quicker than anticipated and half-tossed onto his back, blinking at the golden-eyed fiend now straddling his hips. 

"Another bonus of girl bits: no refractory time," Crowley hisses, hitching his hips to slide that wet, hot-slick space up and down where Aziraphale's fat cock is trapped between the fold of his belly and that impossible heat, torturously. 

"Oh," Aziraphale sighs, hands wringing those slim hips hard enough to pattern bruises there. "Please. Will you?" He reaches up and Crowley, not understanding what hasn't been said, leans down for a battling kiss. 

"Anything, angel. Anything at all," he whispers between them, still rutting. His knees barely make purchase on the mattress around Aziraphale's girth, but he couldnt _possibly_ love him more. He might sizzle up from trying; this feels holy enough as it is.

"Your... your _hair_." The angel winds his fingers in the short, modern style and pulls and it grows instantly, only stopping when he does, somewhere around the burnished shine of a nipple ring. 

"I _knew_ you liked it long," Crowley teases, back arching sharply when Aziraphale pulls him down by his shoulder blades to latch onto that tiny bar with his teeth. He can't go far without some pain, but the angel doesnt want him to anyway. He winds the length of copper-red curls around one fist and keeps Crowley's head bowed back, reaching between them as he releases the nipple to stand his cock up. 

"I do, dear boy. Sit." And Crowley does, with clear relish etched on his face as the stretch takes him by surprise, not having _used_ this genitalia in ages. 

Crowley grinds for a moment, settling down on every inch with his brows peaked in the center and eyes shut in concentration, before getting his feet under his weight by Aziraphale's sides and lifting. As he drops again, searching for a good angle, the angel's face is resplendent with awe and deep-etched love. Aziraphale let's Crowley take a hand and lead it downward so that his thumb catches the demon's clit when he drops down and grinds forward, causing these perfect little clenches inside that drive Aziraphale to the edge with a certainty he's not sure he's ready for, yet. 

He was enjoying this, immensely. Never wants it to end. 

They don't last long whatsoever; Crowley had been right, they're exhausted and sweat- filthy and probably should have waited til morning, but this is so perfect, finally, after orbiting one another for _so long_. Neither can quite be put off. Aziraphale comes with a strangled shout as Crowley's cunt tightens over his length in a slow grip that squeezes over him, milking, and the demon whimpers as he shudders above him, riding out each final wave until his overtired legs and arms give out and he slouches forward, letting Aziraphale catch his face for a kiss that leaves them breathless. 

They're finally free radicals; they've (at least for now) thrown off their responsibilities and oppressors, and all they have left is faith in one another. Aziraphale is suddenly slammed by the weight of that realization as Crowley collapses, tucking his face into the sweaty arch of Aziraphale's neck and shoulder. 

"Mmf," he sighs, letting Aziraphale push him off and to the side. The angel wrinkles his nose and waves a hand over them, wiping away the mess with a minor miracle as he gathers his dearest friend close and tucks them together. "Love you. Can finally say it, without worrying, eh? We gave 'em the finger today. On our own, now." Crowley sighs, wanting that off his chest before he lets sleep take hold. 

"Yes, we are." _That's a whole new thing to be worried about _is what he wants to say, but not before they sleep. He's not sure if they can even have nightmares, but he'd rather not find out. 

Crowley sinks into sleep almost instantly, his breath puffing across Aziraphale's throat where his face is tucked in tight, a spindly leg and arm thrown over the angel so they're pressed as tight as possible. Aziraphale lets him doze for a few hours, fretting himself too much to relax properly, though he _does_ feel significantly better after finally being so close to his dearest friend. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1.5 smuts and plenty of fluff

Crowley blinks bleary-eyed and wincing in the low dawn, draped across his dearest friend. The angel is not quite asleep (he'd never been as good at it as the demon, but tried occasionally) but has his eyes closed, fingering locks of long, red-soft curls where his arm was trapped under the demon's weight. The cords of them fall against Crowley's naked back as he does so, picking up new ones to twine around his digits before letting them drop softly, over and over. He's been doing this for at least an hour since he came back to bed, thinking in the slow- quiet din while his beloved slept on. 

"Tell me about the beginning," Aziraphale whispers as Crowley wriggles to life in his hold, his voice soft as dayglow in the bedroom. The light has darkened some now, the curtains drawn tighter and made thicker, thanks to one of their's errant thought. 

Crowley nuzzles his face into the salt-scent nook of Aziraphale's neck, drawing himself impossibly closer. "You were there." 

"No, the _very_ beginning. I wasnt there," Aziraphale says, a bit louder, letting his thighs fall open as Crowley's shin works between them, the press of the sweat-and-damp of them, _there_, a heady thing so early. "I wasn't made until after the Casting Out. Despite what our vessels and general dispositions might suggest, you are _much_ older than me, dear boy. Millennia, at least. I saw the papers in the office while you slept. You _made the stars_?" 

"Some of them," Crowley concedes with a sigh. He rolls to his back, letting the angel mirror their position of a moment ago.

"I wasn't there. Not for a long time. Tell me. You're quite a bit stronger than you ought to be, for a common enough demon." 

Crowley makes a moue at the ceiling but relents. Can't deny Aziraphale anything, in the end. 

"'S not all that special, really. You project some grace, wrap some atoms around it, set off an explosion in the center. Add some heat, some chemical reaction. Make a shape, place the planets. That's what I got in trouble for. The planets. I was making viable ones. Back-ups, for Earth. God didnt like that." As he lays on his back, the demon flickers a small orb of light to life in his palm, swirling a tiny Milky Way through his fingers as he describes the art of his past life's work. It dissolves into nothingness as Aziraphale watches, rapt. Crowley sniffs and puts an arm behind his head. "The nebulae were more fun."

"I thought only the archangels worked on the galaxies." 

"Hmm. No, there were a couple of us low-lives. None of _us_ made it out _white_." Crowley seems to side-step an unasked question, and Aziraphale doesnt press. After a moment, Crowley frowns. "Choosing faces?" 

"Mmyes. I have a theory; I think we need to posess one another's bodies. But to carry it out, I would very much like to continue on from last night." At Crowley's raised brow and wide eyes, the angel rutted against his slender thigh, a hand sliding down to press the meat of it closer. "You said 'get off and start again in the morning'. It's _seven_. That's morning. Now." Aziraphale rolled a bit more so that he was over Crowley's prone, very malleable and eager form and bit his lip. "I was perfectly happy with the quim _last night_ but, my dear, I'm afraid I need you to fuck me, immediately." 

Crowley choked a little on his own spit on an inward gasp. He found himself in the floating bliss of that bright grin above his face, though, and relaxed with a soft smile of his own. A genuine one. "Of course, angel. Anything." He closed his eyes and reached down between them, drawing blue eyes southward, and Aziraphale watched in fascination. Crowley's fingers dipped low, touching the soft patch of skin between his cheeks, and then drew upward, hand curled in a C toward his body as he sealed the damp slit and drew the bollocks out, dropping like plums from his fist as he moved upward still, forming a cock from his own atoms. It was beautiful, as much as a cock could be, very average and not unlike Aziraphale's own, except that it was leaner and uncut, and a darker shade of ruddy pink. 

Aziraphale immediately wanted his mouth on it, and bent to the task before Crowley had even opened his eyes. 

"Wai-uh, wait!" Crowley snapped his legs closed, almost on Aziraphale's ears, and tugged the angel upward to lay on his chest again. "How do we...how do you expect us to posess one another? Like... _how_?"

"Well, dear, I suppose we have to push out at the same time and slowly go into one as we vacate the other. It would be easier, I think, if we did it while erm... bonding?" 

Crowley went eerily still and started sweating anxiously. He lay stock still, processing that, blinking up at Aziraphale. "You...what? Won't... we could _kill_ each other! Like, _actually_!" 

Aziraphale nodded, biting his lip. "Possibly. But we're _certainly_ dead without trying it. We shouldn't _meld_, it would completely combine our graces. It's dangerous, the bits of one another in... well, _in one another_ could react to holy water or hellfire. We should try just _switching vessels_ first. My grace would make your body immune to holy water, even blessed by God themself. Yours would save my body from hellfire, should Heaven choose that. If we're right, and they are coming, soon, I need to look like you and you need to look like me. And we'll have to practice talking and walking like each other, too." 

Crowley nodded along. "Alright. Do it now, or...?" 

"Heavens, no! I still want you to fuck me with this beautiful cock you've just made, and I dont want you to look like _me_ doing it!" Aziraphale spluttered, grinning when he noticed Crowley was laughing behind his hands. "Now that we're decided, let me explore you a little, dear boy. I very much want to put my mouth on this," he cocked a white eyebrow and scuttled down the bed, pushing long, lean legs out of the way to either side. 

"Excuse me, you got to do that last night? What about _my turn_? What abo--oh, _fuck_, a--alright," Crowley groaned, bucking his hips toward the suction of that hot, soft mouth. Aziraphale explored slowly, thoroughly, keeping his eyes aloft and trained on the sinuous figure beneath him. He loved the mouthfeel of some foods, rolling it around on his tongue, but the heft of Crowley's cock was now _second to none_. The soft skin of it, the smooth glide of a taut foreskin and the bulbous, smooth drop of bollocks that slid from between his teeth....

Crowley whimpered more than once, not shy but _overwhelmed_, near shaking, by the time Aziraphale allowed himself to be rolled over. He wrapped his arms around lean thighs instead, keeping Crowley straddling his face as he sucked one final time, hard and long over the length of him as the demon gave a shout, trembling away to shimmy himself down Aziraphale's belly. 

"Wouldnt be much good to you for a bit if you continued," Crowley wheezes at Aziraphale's pout. The moue is soon softened by Crowley taking him by the chin, angling for a deep kiss with plenty of tongue flickering over his palate. Just when the angel has gone breathless, Crowley tips his chin up and dips down to nip and lick over an exposed throat, moving to the side to nibble collarbones as lissome hands grip and squeeze at hips and belly. Their cocks align and rutting soon takes the forefront as Aziraphale gasps and takes ahold of the jut of hipbone at either side. 

Crowley lowers his hands and burrows them under Aziraphale's arse, hiking thighs up to close around his own hips as he traps himself, then slinks further down. He nips at the curve of belly and licks over a softened hip bone, loving every second that Aziraphale's hands are tight in his hair. The smell of his angel is pungent here; ozone and linen, bergamot and ancient, crumbling papers. The faint tinge of sweat and come from last night, unable to be completely miracled away. Crowley smells himself here, too, the soft slick of natural lubrication and slightest whiff of the Bentley's burning leather. 

He wants to roll around in it, the combined filth of them. Wear it like a cologne every day. Only Aziraphale would be able to tell _exactly_ what it was. 

Crowley licks a firm, wet stripe up the underside of Aziraphale, from hole to frenulum, and captures the tip in his lips, working the spongy head against the roof of his mouth with his forked tongue until the thighs on either side of his head are _shaking_. 

"Cuh-- _Crowley_!" Aziraphale shouts, hands yanking and body curling forward as it all becomes too much. His cock leaks freely, dribbling salt onto the demon's tongue. Crowley snorts with a fond smile and laps it up, dipping one narrow tip of tongue into the slit and grinning salaciously when Aziraphale squeaks. 

"Hold this," Crowley says through wide grin, (unbelievably happy to be here) and hands Aziraphale his own knee--the angel huffs in mock annoyance and falls back fully to the mattress-- to splay himself open while the demon settles his narrow self onto his belly and tips Aziraphale's hips just so. 

"Ohhhh, _fffuuck_," Aziraphale trembles, legs shaking. He nearly lets go of his knee, but Crowley asked him to hold it, so he tightens his grip, sweat pooling in the pit of it as he shakes with each new wave of sensation. The forked tongue squirming against--oh, now _into_ his hole now has alarmingly stolen all of his considerable wit. Crowley has sucked it out of him with his talented, unbelievable mouth. The demon does a sudden twist and the angel nearly levitates off the mattress. 

"Oh, ff, Crowley, dearest, you--" Aziraphale chokes, unable to keep still any longer as his hips naturally twitch under cunning demonic fingers. He feels Crowley grin wide against him and wriggle in a finger against the lithe squirm of wet muscle. Aziraphale sighs happily and ruts his hips down, crying out as Crowley's finger curls unexpectedly and glances across that tender bundle deep inside. "Oh, there, _there_ dear boy. Oh, my!" Crowley drools some more and slides a second finger in, easing the way with a miracle or two of slick. He lays his head on the thigh Aziraphale isnt holding and looks up. 

The angel feels eyes on him and takes a steadying breath, glancing down. He has rarely seen Crowley so calm and-- well, _happy_. The demon smiles up at him, one of those rare, soft, genuine things, and Aziraphale is struck by the memory of their very first meeting. That smile echoes back at him now all the way from The Eastern Gate, 6000 years past. So much trauma and living and loving has happened since then, so much to weigh them down, but Crowley's smile is still there, here at the end. 

"Please, darling. _Please_, come here. I'm ready, I _need_ you." Manicured fingers scrabble for Crowley's arms, tugging him up to lay along the length of him. Crowley slithers up easily, like he was made for exactly fitting all his concave angles along Aziraphale's convex ones. Their mouths slide together anew, wet and excited, prodding tongues in the same way Crowley is prodding gently below for entrance. 

He sinks in and sucks on Aziraphale's tongue at the same time, setting all the angel's nerve endings on fire. That slim, _perfect_ cock split him carefully. It's not painful at all, he's so wet and open. Aziraphale's thighs fall flat on the bed to either side, calves curled loosely around the backs of Crowley's knees, and suddenly the pressing weight of his friend is gone. Aziraphale's eyes snap open at the shock of it, but Crowley's only pushed up onto his hands, looking down at _them_, combined, squinting at the shadowed area where he's disappearing into the angel, already sweating in droplets as he holds himself carefully above, waiting to be told he can move. 

"Darling," Aziraphale whispers, cupping his cheek. He reaches further and wraps a fist in ling, red curls, pulling Crowley back down, tighter against him so he can revel in the weight of the demon against every inch. Yellow eyes flicker up, full of such raw emotion it makes his heavenly heart clench. Aziraphale sets his jaw and ghosts their lips together, not quite kissing before whispering, "Wreck me." 

Crowley emits a sort of sob and pistons his hips forward as deep as he can press and then back, almost sliding out before angling carefully and driving back in with a brutal thrust. 

He does his best to reach the angel's standards, snapping his hips roughly forward and angling up. He know when he finds the right spot, as Aziraphale's head fell back on the pillow with a sharp gasp. 

"Oh, yes, darling. Exactly there, _staaay_," Aziraphale groans, hands scratching down Crowley's lithe back to grip his arse, kneading as he drives into the angel in now- brutal thrusts. Tendrils of red tickle his chest hair, drifting down from where the demon is bent, rocking back and forth like pendulums from the momentum of them. "Gr-_yes_, dear, oh, _Crowley_. Just like that!" He praises, eyebrows pinching in the center when the demon moves the angel's legs, draping one up his chest and hooking it over a bony shoulder as he slows to a grind against that bundle of nerves. Crowley reaches between their bellies with his free hand and grasps for that fat pink cock, squeezing up the length of it twice before Aziraphale explodes abruptly with a shout.

Crowley growls through his teeth at the sight, snapping rapidly in and out of Aziraphale's hot, tight channel to find his own release as he clings to Aziraphale's thigh, a pale knee to the side of his head where he presses his mouth in a wet smear. Aziraphale reaches with shaky hands and pinches at the nipple rings, tugging lightly but it's enough to send a second wave of full-body wracking through the demon, which Aziraphale quite enjoys watching. He releases them and runs the pads of his thumbs over the stiff peaks, rubbing the blood back into them, until Crowley swats him away with a weak hiss.

"So lovely, how're you-- _how_?!" Crowley groans, pitching forward when Aziraphale pulls at the ends of his hair, dragging him down to smash their mouths together. 

After a moment, when their breath settles and the clenching of hearts has subsided a bit, Crowley pulls his hips back, groaning slightly as the feeling of his cock slipping free of the angel. Aziraphale grimaces but pulls Crowley back down to drape across his chest, cheekbone pillowed on the soft meat of his sternum. 

"We have to switch vessels and go... outside. You'll need to go to the bookshop for a while. We can meet at St James' this afternoon?" Aziraphale prompts after several minutes of quiet bliss. "They'll probably abduct us as soon as we're visible." 

Crowley sighs. His breath ghosts against a tuft of cloudy-white hair covering one soft pectoral, and, while he would gladly spend a decade right here, Aziraphale is right. 

Eventually, their former employers will come knocking. Might as well face the music on their own terms and stand a chance at survival. 

"Angel." Crowley halts, pushing up onto his knees. "I'm... very glad this happened. If we--" 

"This will work, dear boy. It has to. I don't think Agnes would have only _one_ wrong prophecy." Aziraphale shakes his head, sitting up. He holds out a hand and Crowley takes it without hesitation. "You push out, and then come into me as I push out and go into you."

"We already did that," Crolwey smirks, but does as he's told when the angel rolls his eyes fondly. Barely a blink later, and Crowley is staring back at his own body through clearer eyes than he's had in eons. 

Aziraphale looks down at their hands and runs his free fingers over skinny ribs and then smiles widely. 

"Stop it. My face doesnt do that," Crowley chides, watching Aziraphale be all prim and prissy in a body that has only slumped and frowned for at least a few centuries. "Slouch more! This isnt going to be convincing at all," he wilts, but Aziraphale slouches into a shockingly good impression of him and frowns. 

"Of course it will. I've been watching you for milennia, darling. We just have to trick the rest of them, and they havent been watching that closely. We just have to act and speak convincingly enough." 

They work on voices and posturing for about an hour, going through the domestics of cleaning up, dressing ("You _actually_ just manifest all your clothes? Dear boy... _what about pants_?! Oh, _good Lord_!") having nibbles, and making coffee. 

"Alright. See you in a few hours?" Crowley frowns at his plump hands wrapped around a mug and downs the rest of it, nodding agreeably when Aziraphale sets the meeting place and time. "I'll check the shop. You'll look for the Bentley?" 

"Of course, dear. I'm sure Adam put it to rights." He leans down (oh, isnt that new?) and plants a kiss to Crowley-as-Aziraphale's mouth, lingering until the demon responds in kind, and then he's gone with a small smile and a whoosh of wings. 

Aziraphale looks around the bleak, spartan flat and sighs. 

Perhaps he should...water the plants?

___ 

It's hard, watching the person you love most be abducted, even if it was expected and planned for. Crowley is screaming behind his gag, seeing the demons circling Aziraphale in his own vessel, trying to warn his beloved. The blow to the head makes him wince with empathy, and then darkness closes in as the angels tighten a bag over his head. 

It was, after all, very fun to blow fire at these assholes, in the end. He wishes he'd singed their suits. 

Crowley steps off the escalator and waits, seeing Aziraphale coming up. He's doing up the zip of Crowley's too-tight trousers and shrugging his jacket on, trying to look put-together before they step outside. They make eye contact, assess the lack of damage to one another, and go to the park. 

Later: "I wish I'd been there to watch," Crowley sighs over a late lunch that has turned into an early dinner by the time the champagne is poured, listening to Aziraphale go on about how cool and sassy he'd been. "I just breathed fire at them, stepped out and told them to leave us alone, and left. Sounds like you had a good time. As much as you could have, anyway," he amends, seeing Aziraphale's eyebrows climb. 

"I wouldnt exactly call it _good_, but I was a perfect _little shit_, I do believe. They seemed quite convinced. But now, darling," he lowers his voice, leaning closer. "Your place or mine?" He puts his hand over Crowley's fingers curling over it.

Crowley smiles one of those Mona Lisa smiles of his, infinitely pleased and finally at ease. He turns his palm up and runs a thumb over the angel's knuckles. "Yours. You don't like mine." He pays the bill with a lazy wave and they get up, turning to go. Crowley lays a hand on the angel's lower back and ushers him out. 

"Sir! Excuse me, sir!" Crowley turns with a frown, hand outstretched to hold the door. Aziraphale is already at the second door, waiting. "Your husband left his jacket. Have a good night, sirs," their waiter deposits the cream affair onto Crowley's arm and does a little bow and leaves, rushing back to collect the bill and what he hopes is a nice tip. 

Crowley mentally amends it to a _substantial tip_ and stares at the swath of linen, fingering the lapel as he follows the angel outside. 

"Your jacket," he holds it open, but it's a nice evening, so Aziraphale takes it and drapes it over one arm, hailing a cab with the other. 

"He called you my husband," Crowley says, cocking his head with a glint behind his glasses. Aziraphale smiles, doing a shy double-take. 

"Well, we practically _are_. Human ceremonies aside," he says, and slides into the cab, giving his own address to the driver. 

When they arrive, Crowley skips up the steps, the locks unbolting for him without so much as a wave. He's a very familiar presence, and they will open for him anytime. He stands aside and follows the angel in, fully expecting Aziraphale to look anxiously over the new inventory for hours before he turns to Crowley for some cuddling, or kisses. 

He is very, _incredibly_ wrong. 

Aziraphale-- before the door even bolts itself shut-- grips Crowley by the lapels and pushes him into the woodwork, open mouth seeking his with uncanny aim. 

"Mmf!" Crowley grunts, surprised, before reaching up to cup Aziraphale's neck on either side and keep him close. "B-_uagh_, bedroom!" he grits out between fondlings, laughing with a wide, true smile when the angel actually _growls_ and drags him to the back office and up a narrow set of stairs to a small, cramped room with a desk overloaded with books and a narrow bed that is neatly made and slightly dusty. 

_That_ won't do. 

A demonic snap, and the books are in neat stacks along the stairs, leaving enough room to get by, thoughtfully cushioned by a tea towel under each bottom layer. The desk has disappeared, probably into someone else's bedroom nearby. 

Another snap and the bed has widened to a double, plenty enough room for a snake to wind itself around a thicc human. Crowley blows out his cheeks like he did when he disappeared the blue and red stains from them at the old nunnery. Aziraphale smiles as the dust lifts and he's gathered close again, mounted even, as his knee-backs hit the bed frame and he sits down with a lapful of hot, wriggling flesh. 

"Angel," Crowley breathes, twining every limb around his dearest friend, keeping him close as Aziraphale banishes their clothing with a thought. "We did it. We can... together, now, yes?" The demon, poor sap that he is, can barely string a sentence together. His thoughts are flying a million miles a minute, scattered and unclear. 

What do they do now? Act retired? Get real jobs to blend in? Does he work at the bookshop and move in? 

Oh Go--someone..._moving in_?! Where? This one tiny room? 

Aziraphale sees the chaos swirling behind yellow eyes and pushes their foreheads together, forcing a calm aura into the room and into Crowley. 

When the demon's shoulders have come down from around his ears, Aziraphale speaks. 

"My dear. We can figure out all of that tomorrow. What we want, what the plan is. But right now I'm terribly glad to have both of us alive and in one piece, and without anyone breathing down our necks anymore. We have this, darling, for as long as She lets us, and that's it. It's--" 

"Are you going to say _ineffable_?" Crowley groans, dropping his head onto a pale, stodgy shoulder. 

"Well. Yes. It is rather what saved us, there at the airfield, after all." He pauses, tracing the narrow indent of Crowley's spine and counting ribs absently until the serpent sighs heavily and sits up. "I love you my dear." 

Crowley preens a bit under that beatific grin and works a smile across his face, though it's more trembly. "I love you, angel. Always have." 

"Good. Now, grow that lovely hair of yours back out, I have need of a handle on you," the angel knocks Crowley to his back on the bed with a laugh and lands atop his concave belly, long legs dividing naturally around his girth. When Crowley releases Aziraphale from a deep, joyous kiss, his hair is a manageable length, the ends curling around tiny gold dots set in flat brown nipples, and Aziraphale bites his lip, deciding where best to begin. 

"This, I think," he miracles up a standard anal plug, colored a deep, brassy gold to match a certain demon's (now very wide) eyes, "will keep you comfortably open for the duration. Okay?" Crowley nods fervently, legs falling flat on the mattress as he humps up into Aziraphale's chin. Aziraphale laughs and kisses the tip of his cock lovingly, working his mouth down around the length of it before probing below with wet fingers. 

"Relax, sweetheart," Aziraphale whispers against his thigh, pushing delicately with the toy as it sinks in. Crowley grits his teeth at the new pet name, though more out of knee-jerk denial than affront. 

"Not sweet," he gasps as the bulb sinks in, hips gyrating to get used to the odd pressure of it. It's fucking _delightful_. 

"You are, and now I have an eternity to tell you so," the angel answers, dragging Crowley off the mattress to his knees and fisting a hand in long, soft red locks. 

"Eternity." Crowley echoes, hand feeling down for the flat base of the toy inside himself, curious. 

"Mine," aziraphale growls, low and proprietary, nudging his cock against Crowley's mouth with his free hand. Crowley's hands curls around the angel's ankles, steadying them both. 

"Yours," he answers, opening his throat, and the first night of the rest of their lives begins in earnest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for other works.
> 
> Leave comments and kudos, find me on tumblr @cuisle-mo-chroidhe

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought, I live off comments and this is my first work in the GO fandom. 
> 
> I love you all!


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